


By the Stars

by vihistoo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, Possessive Sherlock, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:10:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vihistoo/pseuds/vihistoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a name on her hand - her soulmate - and it fills her with so much happiness she's walking on air.<br/>There is a name on his hand - his soulmate -  and it is a ball and chain, and he does not want it.</p><p>When they meet, he tells her so. He expected her tears, but he did not expect the open space of nothing he feels in his chest.<br/>When they meet again, years later, it comes back. And now she's got a boyfriend, but that can't be right. She belongs to him, and he to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, in this universe, John and Sherlock have known each other since childhood, and are flatmates when Sherlock meets Molly again.
> 
> Also, smut. Second chapter. Just a little friendly caveat.
> 
> -Love, V-

_You'll learn to hate me_

_But still call me baby_

_Oh, love_

_So call me by my name_

_- **Robert Pattinson, "Never Think"** -_

 

On the eve of Molly Hooper's sixteenth birthday, her family gathers close, watching the clock with anticipation as they converse around the kitchen table. Her mother and father are there, as well as her little brother, whose Naming is to come in three years, as he is only thirteen. Molly skates her fingers over her palm, nervously eyeing the area. She's been filled with excitement and dread for the past week.

"Nervous, Mouse?" her father asks.

Molly gives a small smile, dropping her hands into her lap. "Just a bit," she admits, and her father's eyes crinkle as he smiles.

"On my Naming, I just about pissed myself when the clock struck midnight," he confesses.

"Arthur!" Virginia scolds, hitting his arm. "Language."

Arthur gives her a lovely smile, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. "And that's why we're soulmates, my dear."

Molly looks at her mother and father, how the names on their palms touch as their fingers are intertwined on the table top, and a bit of tension releases.

"Watch him be the ugliest guy in the world," Matt comments, leaning in his chair and idly examining his nails.

"Oh, shut it, Matt. And sit up right, you don't look cool, you just look dumb," Arthur sighs.

Matthew rolls his eyes, and Molly looks at her little brother, letting a huff of indignance escape her.

"It wouldn't even matter, Matthew. We're soulmates. It's destiny," Molly says.

"My name's Matt," her brother grumbles, slouching.

"It's 11:59, Mouse." Arthur says excitedly, shifting in his seat and beaming.

"Already?" Virginia asks, looking at the clock ere looking back to Molly. "Oh, our baby girl, she's growing up."

"Mom," Molly chides.

Her mother smiles at her with teary eyes, holding on to her husband's arm tightly. Molly smiles back, before a sensation in her hand makes her shiver with discomfort. As the feeling intensifies, she gasps, right hand flying to hold her left. Her mother and father grimace in sympathy as the feeling escalates to pain. It feels as if someone is dragging a blunt stick across her hand. The pain is ragged, and she feels it in the tendons and muscles of her hand as the skin ripples, black spouting across her hand and through her capillaries like some special effects disease. Molly cries out as the letters take form, the surface of her skin beginning to burn as the ink boils. Her hand uncontrollably curls into a fist, and she bites back a curse as the hurt sharpens to the point of a knife before it dissipates quickly, leaving her palm feeling curiously numb.

"Mouse? Are you okay?"

"Yes," Molly says, looking up from her hand at her mother, voice a bit breathy.

"Well? What does it say?" Matt chimes in, and Molly looks at him in surprise, but her look goes unnoticed, her brother's gaze focused on her hand like if he stares hard enough he'll be able to see through her fingers.

Molly looks at her hand with apprehension, seeing the bottom of her soulmate's name peeking out from beneath her curled fingers. Slowly, she uncovers the ink, and her breath catches in her throat as a warmth erupts in her chest.

**_Sherlock Holmes_ **

"Sherlock?" her brother questions in dubiety, having gotten up to investigate, but Molly ignores him, happiness coursing through her. Having his name on her palm is fantastic, filling her mind with fanciful dreams; finding him in a coffee shop, bumping into each other on the street, getting into the same cab; all of them some sort of meet-cute.

"Sherlock?" Virginia echoes, raising a brow.

"Alright, so it's a bit abnormal, no big deal. If he's got a name like that, he's got to be special," Arthur says.

Molly takes in a deep breath, raising her head and cradling her hand close to her chest, ardour making her smile widely. "He's going to be absolutely astounding," she breathes, and as her mother and father curl their lips into grins of affection, and her brother squeezes her shoulder in silent support, Molly knows that what she says is true, and the way her heart speeds up tells her she's right.

**______________________________**

"Any news on Molly Hooper?" Siger questions, looking from his son to his wife, Violet.

"She sounds very sweet," Violet adds, smiling brightly, eyeing her son in hidden caution and hope.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and suspires, getting up from his seat. "Oh, yes, _sweet,_ what a lovely occurrence, this expectation forced upon me."

"Sherlock - " Siger starts, only to be truncated by his son.

"No, I didn't want this two years ago, and I still have no yearning for my soulmate, for any 'mate'. I will never be bound to anyone, so poor, _sweet_ , Molly Hooper will have to just find someone else," Sherlock says scathingly, ignoring how his stomach drops at the thought of his soulmate loving anyone but him.

Violet lips draw into a sad line and her brows drop. "Dear, you don't really want that."

"No, Mum, of course. You're right. I was just lying to you for the amusement of it all," Sherlock sneers, pushing past his father to reach the stairs.

"Sherlock, please, think about it. Caring about someone is not a weakness," Siger calls after him, and Sherlock scoffs, brushing off the remark and entering his room, shutting the door before sliding into the seat in front of his desk.

He stares at nothing for a bit, blood still beating fast with irritation, and he curses when he finds his fingers tracing over the swirling ink written across his right palm. His brother's words ring in his ears.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Sherlock shakes his head vigorously, dislodging Mycroft's words from his mind.

_I have no need for a soulmate, attached to me like a ball and chain, dragging me down and slowing my thoughts. Molly Hooper can go on her own, happy way, and marry some normal bloke, it doesn't matter to me._

The way Sherlock's heart skips a beat tells him he's lying to himself, but Sherlock Holmes is very good at ignoring things he dislikes, and the thought that he's wrong is one of them.

**______________________________**

Molly clutches her bag to her side as she and her friend Melissa make their way through the crowds of people clogging the tube station.

"I don't really think I did well on that anatomy essay," Melissa says sadly, eyes turning to watch her feet.

"Really?" Molly asks in curiosity, remembering how quickly she finished writing hers. "Why?"

"I don't know," Melissa sighs. "I just don't think I explained myself well enough."

Molly hums sympathetically. "I doubt you did badly, Mel, you got higher marks than me on the project we did."

Melissa smiles, her doubtful smile brightening at Molly's words. She opens her mouth to speak, but something Molly hears has her holding up her hand to halt Melissa's words, her heart leaping into her throat.

"Sherlock! Wait for me, you tall git!"

Molly whirls, looking for the source of the shout, and she when she sees a sandy-headed young man standing on tip-toes, she runs to him, simultaneously looking for who he's calling after.

At the feeling of her hand on his arm, the man looks her in the eyes, appearing slightly annoyed. "Can I help you, miss?"

"Your friend, Sherlock, what's his last name?" Molly asks urgently, hope and anticipation making her heart beat fast and her stomach swirl.

His blue eyes suddenly turn wary, and he assays Molly charily. "I don't think-"

"Please. Is it Holmes?" Molly begs, holding up her left hand, displaying the proud, looping calligraphy.

The young man's eyes go startlingly wide, then a smile breaks across his face, bigger and filled with more joy than anything she's ever seen. "You're Molly Hooper?"

"Yes!" Molly confirms, watching as the blonde laughs in unrestrained delight.

"Go!" he urges, pushing her. "He's got curly hair, and he's tall! Hurry, he walks quickly!"

"Thank you!" Molly shouts behind her as she breaks into a jog, pushing through the mass of people, throwing, "Finding my soulmate!" over her shoulder in apology.

She laughs breathlessly when she spots a wild head of brown curls in her field of vision, and she pushes herself a bit harder, blind panic seizing her when the head turns to board the tube. She uses peoples' bodies to propel her, and when she is finally in front of him she grabs his forearm, pulling him to a stop.

A tingle races up her arm where they are connected, and her skin hums. She completely forgets speaking, the urge to wrap her arms around him and bury her nose in his neck overwhelming her. He seems to be having the same reaction, and his pupils dilate, almost completely obscuring his irises, which at first glance appear to be blue, but looking closer, green and flecks of yellow are all intertwined, and her breath is taken away. His gaze strays to her lips, and when Molly's eyes follow suit, she notices they are both panting. Following her sight further down, Molly notes that he is skinny, far too skinny to be healthy, and his skin itself is rather sallow and pallid, but returning to his face, she momentarily looks past the dark bruises under his eyes just to look _at_ his eyes, the beautiful colour of his irises as they stare back at her in fascination.

"Are you...are you Sherlock Holmes?" Molly asks breathlessly, her heart and body singing with a joy that forces her lips into a wide smile she can't contain even if she tried. She knows the question is useless, as their bodies' reactions have already confirmed her question.

He snatches his arm from her, and her breath stutters in hurt and confusion, watching him brush at the spot, like he's wiping her touch off. "Yes, I am. And you are?" Sherlock asks, looking down his aristocratic nose at her, his handsome face shifting into a moue.

Molly swallows with difficulty, weakly holding up her palm. "I'm Molly Hooper. I think we're soulmates."

Sherlock sighs with displeasure. "I was hoping this wouldn't happen."

Molly holds in her breath, letting it out slowly to control the sadness that threatens to overtake her. In the background, the last call for the tube sounds out over the speakers. "You were hoping we wouldn't-"

"Meet. Yes. I don't need a soulmate. I don't want a soulmate," Sherlock finishes.

A shattered chasm opens in Molly, and she holds back tears, begging the stars that she heard something else. "You don't...you don't want...you d-don't want a soulmate?"

Sherlock nods, and as if Molly is a child, he bends down to her level, bringing his face close to hers. "I. Don't. Want. You," Sherlock says clearly, raising a mocking brow, cleanly and decisively crushing every dream Molly has held since her Naming under his haughty shoe. He turns away from her, stepping quickly to the tube doors. Molly takes a unsteady step after him.

"But, it's-it's destiny," she pleads, the first tear falling down her cheek.

His bitter, scornful laugh almost hurts worse than the sight of his back as the doors close.

** ______________________________ **

Inside the tube, Sherlock blindly sags into a seat, cradling his stinging palm to his aching chest, where his heart collapses into a hollow cavern. It literally feels as if someone has reached through his flesh and twisted the organ, leaving a sad, pathetic thing to beat weakly. He whimpers like a child, wanting to beg the tube to stop so he can run back to her and throw himself at her feet.

"Dear? Are you alright?"

Sherlock looks up, the woman's face blurry through his tears, but when he blinks and they drop from his eyes to his cheeks, he sees her kind, old face watching him in worry.

"My...my soulmate-" Sherlock tries, before a sob takes his breath away and he hunches in shame and embarrassment, trying to hide from the curious and pitying eyes of the other tube riders.

A gentle hand settles on his shoulder and a tissue appears before him. He thanks the woman with a glance and small nod, holding the tissue over his face and sinking into the seat, tears falling and breath stuttering for the rest of the ride.

Instead of his dorm, Sherlock finds himself at his parent's home, and his mother's eyes widen in alarm when he wilts and falls a metre or two from the doorway.

"Sherlock!" Violet cries, kneeling beside him, her alarm growing into fear when she sees the tears in her son's eyes and the overall air of sickness that surrounds him, although she thinks the two are unrelated. "Sherlock? What happened?"

"She hates me," Sherlock answers, anguished. "She found me and I made her hate me."

Violet's face shifts into sadness and pity, sudden understanding dawning. "Oh, my darling boy, what have you done?"

Sherlock's only answer is to sob as his mother folds him into her embrace.

**______________________________**

"Molly Mouse? I brought some soup and bread."

Molly doesn't move, doesn't shift. She holds her breath, praying to the stars that her father leaves, and hating herself for it.

"Mouse, please. It's been a week. You've lost weight. Please eat something, even a bite."

Molly exhales heavily, turning away from the wall onto her back. Arthur takes this as acceptance and he crosses to her bed, laying the tray on her side table.

"I am so sorry, Mouse. Tell me how to help, tell me what to do," Arthur begs, looking at the asthenic, grey form of his daughter, glazed brown eyes staring up at the ceiling blankly.

"There's nothing you can do, Dad. He doesn't want me, he hates me. It's simple," Molly answers, thin voice shredded by emotions Arthur knows no eighteen-year-old should ever have to experience.

Arthur feels a lump in his throat, and so without much thought, he lifts the corner of his daughter's duvet, sliding in next to her. He takes her limp form in his arms, and when the first anguished sob makes itself known against his chest, Arthur damns the day Sherlock Holmes was born.

And so it goes, Arthur holding his daughter tight against him, forcing down his heartbreak over her tormented and broken cries, sharp and warbled. Soon, Virginia enters the room, and upon seeing her husband and child in the bed, she cocoons Molly's other side, hiding her tears in her daughter's soft hair.

Matt joins soon after, and something passes through the air when he meets his father's eyes over his mother's shoulder. He understands the message clearly, and never forgets it.

_Protect her._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be carnal relations.

The glove Molly wears on her left hand is a simple thing, soft cotton the pale peach colour of her skin. The glove is fingerless and thick enough to conceal the black name on her hand, yet thin enough to not be a hassle or distraction. It takes a bit of work to fix a latex glove over top it, but after practise, the action becomes easy.

Molly is organising things in the lab when Mike Stamford knocks on the door jam, and she turns slightly to greet him, keeping the tips of her fingers on a beaker she was about to move.

"Hello, Mike! Are you alright?" Molly asks with a friendly smile, and once Mike grins in return, Molly continues to move things around, stifling the annoyance she feels at whoever has been leaving a mess in her lab.

"Hi, Molly. I'm good, yeah. Just wanted to stop by and tell you that Detective Inspector Lestrade's gonna come by in a bit, take a look at that tests on that murder that came in."

"Mrs Summers?" Molly inquires, turning to place a box of unused slides into a drawer.

"That's the one. And, a little warning. He's bringing someone with him. He's...he's an odd one, but he's brilliant. He can be a bit rude, though, so don't let him get to you."

Molly looks up momentarily, giving Mike a reassuring quirk of her lips. "Thanks, Mike. I'll remember. Do you now how long they'll be? My lunch break is in fifteen."

"Not long, I'd say. Like I said, the bugger's brilliant. He'll know everything he needs to in a minute, unless he needs to run some more tests," he answers.

Molly sets her mouth and brow thoughtfully."Alright. Thank you, Mike."

Mike bobs his head with a smile, before leaving Molly to finish her sorting. Minutes later, as she's crouching on the ground placing a graduated cylinder in a cupboard, she hears the door to the lab swing open. Her palm suddenly itches, and she scratches at it absentmindedly before calling out, "Just a 'mo, Greg, someone cheeky's been messing up my lab."

Sticking the vestigial two cylinders into the cupboard, Molly stands, running her hands down her thighs to smooth any creases in her pants. She turns on her heel and grabs a folder she set down next to a microscope. Walking towards Greg as she opens and flips through it, Molly begins to speak.

"I ran some LTF's, and the Prothrombin time was pretty prolonged, which is odd, because she wasn't on warfarin, or any medication. Summers was covered in bruises and suffered severe blood loss from a three-inch laceration left of her spine, resulting in her death. I have more detailed reports in here, but I thought I'd just give you a bit of a summary, to get you on the...right..." Molly trails off, noticing that Greg has changed his shoes, and trousers, and cologne, and suddenly, she is not so sure that who she is talking to is indeed Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Sherlock, I told you to wait. I just needed to take a drink of water, you tyke," Greg grouches as he strides into the lab, stopping short when he sees Molly. He seems to sense some sort of tension, and his eyebrows drop, eyes narrowing and flickering between Molly and...and...

She looks up very slowly, past the smart black dress shoes, past the crisp black trousers, to the somewhat straining buttons on a dark green shirt. Up further, and Molly feels nauseous when sharp blue-green eyes meet hers.

The silence is deafening, and Molly takes a step back, breath whistling through her teeth as she strains against every muscle in her body, all of them twitching to step back to him and hold him against her.

"You've a boyfriend," he says, and Molly believes all the gods have pitted against her, for his voice is deeper than she remembers, thrumming through her bones, and he is grown now, a lean and tall figure of long limbs and elegance, no longer thin and ungainly, but strong and fit, and she feels it again, what she felt at the tube so long ago, and they're not even touching.

She steals a look at him, and vicious, ruthless satisfaction floods her body when she catches his leather-encased fingers curling into fists, his body straightening as his muscles coil with tension and his eyes narrow.

_You had your chance._

Molly stands a bit taller as well, feeling her lips lift into a cruel grin so much unlike her usual wont she feels a flash of doubt. "Yes. I do. Problem?"

Sherlock scowls as he takes a step towards her. "Yes," he snarls. "There is a problem. You're not his. You're mine."

Molly frowns in mock sympathy, taking a step as well, and now they're face to face. "Oh, that is a problem," she sighs, before she voids her face of everything, bringing up the shattered bits of the girl he broke that day in front of the tube. "Because, you see, love," she continues feeling her lip curl in distaste, enjoying how he flinches at the unmerited endearment. She brings her face closer to his, using the table top for balance. "I. Don't. Want. You."

Sherlock's face falls, and Molly rocks back onto her heels, walking past his frozen form to hand the file off to Greg, keeping her steps jaunty until she exits the swinging doors, where she promptly stumbles and trips, an ache so deep in her chest and hand she almost calls out for him.

She makes it to the loo in time to retch, and she stays hunched over the toilet until Mike gently knocks on the door and gives her the rest of the day off.

**______________________________**

Greg doesn't move a muscle, only taking a small step forward when Sherlock groans in pain and lists, falling forward onto his knees and bending until his forhead hangs an inch above the found. Sherlock tears his glove off, and holds the shaking extremity in front of him, breathing heavily through clenched teeth as the world dims and wobbles through his agony.

"Sherlock?" Greg asks softly, taking quiet steps towards the man's trembling form.

Sherlock rises off his knees slightly when the urge to puke hits him, clenching his muscles as he gags.

Greg knows how this feels, knows because his wife, his _soulmate_ cheated on him. He touches Sherlock's shoulder with a kind palm, not entirely suprised when he moves closer to Greg, knowing that another's touch provides a rather profound sense of comfort.

"Sherlock, was that...was that your...?" Greg questions, leaving the end of the sentence off, quite certain that _that_ word will only worsen his pain.

"Yes."

Greg knows that Sherlock is trying so hard to keep his voice unaffected, but it's thick and hoarse, somehow managing to break on one syllable, and Greg feels a level of pity and sadness he has never known wave through his body, so he scoots closer, wrapping an arm around the hunched body of his friend, trying to fix his broken heart with the warmth of his touch.

**______________________________**

"Molly? Are you sure you're okay? You don't sound too well."

Molly holds the phone slightly away from her mouth to take in a deep breath, releasing it steadily. Even hearing his voice aches. Usually the dull pain only comes when he touched her. "Yes, Tom, I'm fine. I'm only sick. I don't want to give it to you," she says calmly. Or so she thinks.

"You sound a bit...well, sweetheart, you sound like your dog died. Or, your cat, rather," Tom protests gently.

Molly looks at Toby in reflex, bringing fingers up to her face to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I'm just a bit frustrated. Can't go cutting into bodies sneezing and coughing."

"Ah. Yes," Tom says. "Are you sure you don't want me to come over? I could bring some soup and we could watch a film or something."

Molly sighs. "No, honey. I'm alright, truly."

"Okay. I'll see you soon," Tom says.

"See you soon," Molly echoes.

She hangs up first, and the ache she was ignoring comes back full-force, hitting her like a lorry. She curls into her bed, and begins sobbing when Toby butts her forehead with his nose, purring and pushing into her space until he curls under her chest, a little furnace of furry warmth.

**______________________________**

"Hello, Molly," Greg calls, walking into the morgue.

"Hullo, Greg!" Molly answers. "Come to see Mr Fozier?"

"Yeah," he says, motioning to the man next to him. "But, first, let me introduce John Watson."

Molly looks at the man and holds out her hand, frowning a bit. "Do I know you?"

John smiles and grasps her hand in his, shaking it. "Hi, Molly. We did meet, some years back, in a tube station."

"Oh," Molly gasps. "You were...his friend."

John nods, his face becoming serious, his grip on her fingers becoming tighter as he leans closer. "Molly, I am so, so sorry for what he's done to you. If I'd known he would...I never would have told you how to find him."

Seconds pass, and Molly swallows the sudden lump in her throat, feeling weak for the burning in her eyes and sinuses as she holds back tears. "It's alright, John. You never could've known. It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you," she says quietly.

She turns in time to catch a falling tear, wiping it away ere she opens the cold chamber drawer. As Greg and John come to stand beside her, she begins to speak, snapping on a pair of gloves to better point things out.

 _He_ doesn't come back. If she sees him, it's a blur of black coat as he turns a corner, his voice slightly muted as she stands outside a door, eavesdropping and holding back smiles and gasps and soft breaths at his hidden humour and intelligence. It's only ever John or Lestrade, hiding their condolement behind caring smiles and compliments she knows would make her blush and stammer if they weren't meant as a buoy to hold her above a sea of grief and longing.

**______________________________**

A fortnight or so later, John decides to confront Sherlock, seeing as how every time he comes back to the flat after seeing Molly in the morgue or lab, Sherlock's eyes burn and his nostrils flare, but he says nothing, and they never speak of her.

"You know, I have met her. Properly," John says, looking up from his computer, across the desk to where Sherlock lays sprawled on the couch. He lolls his head on his neck to meet John's gaze.

"Who?" he drawls, picking his shoulders and hips off the couch to reorrient himself more comfortably.

John stops typing altogether, stilling his mind and fingers to better focus on Sherlock's reaction. "Molly."

Sherlock immediately stiffens and his left hand flies to his right, a suffering John has only seen in those close to death crossing the man's face, before it smooths out, neutral. "And?" Sherlock questions, voice tight."Your point is?"

"It's a shame she's got a boyfriend," John answers, seeing Sherlock's eyes instantly snap to him out of his peripheral vision. "She's quite pretty. Those eyes are a wonder. 'Bambi eyes', I heard Greg call them."

And John is telling the truth. If she and Sherlock hadn't met, John would probably contemplate asking Molly out for drinks.

" _John_ ," Sherlock warns lowly, sitting up from his position.

John continues, letting his face become dreamy, and his voice romantic. "She's so kind, and helpful and smart - she's bloody brilliant. Of course, not your level, but I bet she can hold her own. Did you know she graduated secondary school early? And skipped two years of uni? Oh, and I saw her once with her hair down, and _cor_ , let me tell you, she was beautiful before, but with all that soft, auburn hair fluttering around that heart-shaped face, she looked radiant. And - "

John never gets to finish his sentence, because he's been ripped out of his char, face pushed into the carpet as Sherlock twists his arm behind his back and his knee makes a sharp, uncomfortable pressure in the middle of John's back. John yearns to twist, snake his body behind Sherlock's and wrap his arms around his flatmate's neck in a headlock, but he purposely relaxes.

"You will stay away from _my soulmate_ ," Sherlock snarls, pushing his knee further into John's back, tightening his grip. His tone is so deadly he feels John unwillingly tense in fear.

"Why should I?" John pushes, arching slightly against Sherlock's aching hold.

"She is mine, _mine._ Not yours, she will _never_ be yours," he spits, and John can feel Sherlock vibrating in restrained anger.

"Hah," John mocks. "She's not yours. She offered herself to you, and you tore her down. She's not yours. Ask Tom."

"Tom?" Sherlock growls, and John curses as his shoulder twinges when Sherlock pulls his arm up further, forcing John to lift slightly off the ground.

"Her boyfriend, you great, bleeding ponce," John grits, wincing when Sherlock lets him go, jumping up and taking long, angry strides to where his coat and scarf hang on a peg.

"Where are you going?" John asks, holding his smarting shoulder as he rights himself.

"To make sure that fucking pillock knows she's _my_ soulmate," Sherlock thunders.

John's eyes widen, and he feels a flash of worry. Sherlock never curses, outside from the occasional,"Oh, hell!", or "Christ!'".

"Sherlock, don't be hasty - "

Sherlock throws a searing look over his shoulder, gaze fiery, ere he tears out of the flat.

John, left sitting on the floor rubbing his aching shoulder, feels sorry for Tom, even though he knows Sherlock, and consequently Molly, would never be happy without this push.

**______________________________**

When Molly hears the knock at her door, she hits her forehead with the heel of her fist, getting up with annoyance.

Reaching for the door handle, she sighs, "Tom, I said I wasn't feeling we-"

Molly's words cut off instantly and her knees weaken, leaving her to lean against the door for support when she recognizes the blue-green eyes burning into her, brown curls falling over a brow set into an fervent mien.

"You," Molly breathes.

He nods shortly, taking a stride towards her, and Molly steps back in reflex, sucking in a sharp breath when Sherlock enters her flat and kicks her door closed.

"Molly," he rumbles, and it takes everything Molly has within her not to react.

"What are you doing here?" she questions, shuffling backwards to put space between them. "You should leave."

Sherlock ignores her, scanning the room with interest. "He hasn't been here today, has he?"

Molly cocks her head slightly. "My boyfriend? Tom?"

"Boyfriend," Sherlock scoffs, mouth pinching and brows coming together in scorn. "You're not his."

Molly snorts, lifting a derisive brow and shifting her weight when his eyes snap to hers. "I'm not yours either. I belong to no one."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock flouts. "Is that why you're here now? Missing work?"

He walks closer to her, and Molly feels a flash of anxiety at the shortening distance between them. With every step he takes, it gets harder and harder to not touch him, embrace him, kiss him. Embarrass herself.

"No," Sherlock answers himself, backing her against a wall and placing his hands on either side of her head, trapping her in the cage of his looming body. "You're here because you _long_ for me," he whispers, lips hovering over the shell of her ear. Despite her resolve, Molly shudders because - because, his scent, his voice, his body heat. _Him_.

"And, truth be told, Molly, dear, I have been longing for you since that day in the tube station."

Molly scoffs and ducks under Sherlock's arms, taking care not to touch him, because that would ruin everything. He lets his hands slide from the wall, and he turns to face her, frustration visible in his expression. "You said - you said you didn't want me, so I don't want your flowery-worded bullshite," Molly spits, pointing an accosting finger. "Get out, and next time you want something from Bart's, be a man for god's sake, and ask for it, instead of sending your friends."

Sherlock's eyes widen, and the seductive charm drops quickly, leaving a suddenly vulnerable and young countenance in it's wake. Molly starts, frowning slightly at the change.

"Wait, I - I, I was wrong. I _can_ admit that, I _will_ admit that. I thought you would end up to be some, vapid, insipid girl who would drag me down, hold me back from the Work, but after that day in the lab, and after John starting bringing your reports to Baker Street, I had to know, I _had_ to know if you were what you seemed like. You didn't know, nobody knew, but I would listen to you, and when I was certain you wouldn't be able to see me, I would watch you." Here, Sherlock frowns. "That sounds disturbing. I'm not doing this right," he sighs, raking a hand through his curls in frustration, taking small steps back and forth, as if wishing he could pace.

"No," Molly interrupts, catching his attention. "I - I know what you mean. I did the same thing. I could hear you and John and Greg in the hallways, so I would listen." Molly takes a step closer to him, eyes shining and smile softening. "You're astonishing. The way you see the world, what you can gather, how you think, it's...astonishing. And you're funny! I never would've thought, but your jokes are hilarious, much more than mine. Not forgetting to mention that you're - you're bloody, you know, gorgeous, like some sort of real-life Adonis. And you can be sweet when you try. Compassionate, too. It's wonderful. You're wonderful," Molly finishes, feeling proud when she notices Sherlock's cheeks are stained red, and the colour has spread to the tips of his ears.

When Sherlock begins to walk closer to her, Molly feels her respiration rate increase, and she's quite certain her heartbeat can be heard throughout the room, even over Sherlock's quiet footsteps. When he reaches her, he lifts his hands to her face, just hovering over her skin, so close she can feel the soft hairs on her cheeks move. His eyes burn into hers.

"You are mine, Molly," he says, hushed, intimate. His voice has dropped even lower. "And I am...I am yours, in return."

Molly closes her eyes as a rush of feeling flies through her, making her light-headed and dizzy. When she opens her eyes again, his mouth is tight in worry.

"Yes," she confirms, her skin suddenly seeming too tight. "Please, touch me, Sherlock. Please."

His tongue, pink and wet, slips out of his mouth to sensually run over his lower lip, and when his hands weigh upon her cheeks, it is all at once the most exquisitely painful and pleasurable thing she has ever encountered. His touch ignites her veins, makes her blood boil and sing. His right palm, the one holding her name, is slightly hotter than his left. They both take a second to savour the moment, before Sherlock grips her arms, pulling her tight against him, and although skin-to-skin contact is only available through the press of his cheek to her head, the body heat and scent emanating off him makes Molly's spine tingle and her breath come in fast, harsh pants.

She lifts her small hand to tug at his shirt buttons. "Off," she breathes.

Sherlock complies quickly, fumbling fingers undoing his shirt shakily. As he works on his shirt, Molly sweeps her jumper off. Pride and surprise make her flush when she realises Sherlock has stopped to admire her. Bright, interested eyes roam over her pale lavender bra and soft stomach.

"Molly," he rumbles, and somehow - Molly has no idea how - but the sight of him is so carnal that she feels her pulse throb between her thighs, and she calculates the probability of her losing consciousness. His cheeks are rosy with arousal, the flush spreading to his chest. His shirt is unbuttoned, and hangs off his shoulders, framing his lean torso and toned stomach. She can see his erection pressing against his trousers, and she wonders why she hasn't kissed him yet, with him standing there half-dressed and radiating sexuality.

"Will you please kiss me, Sherlock?" Molly asks, beginning to sway lightly, drunk on him.

Three quick strides and he is to her, only hesitating a second in front of her before he dives, soft, plush mouth enveloping hers. A fire instantly burns low in her gut and she moans, pushing against him. He groans into her mouth in reply, fingers tangling behind her and unhooking her bra as he pushes them backwards, backwards, backwards, until Molly is trapped against the wall, Sherlock's tall, strong body pinning her - not that she'd try to get away again. A tornado could rip apart the entire city of London right now, but nothing would take her away from him.

The sensation is breathtaking. The slide of his skin against hers makes her entire body hum and tingle. She wants to sit down and pet him, slide her hands in long strokes all over his body, but at the same time, she wants to tear the clothes off him, kiss his breath away, have him hold her wrists aloft while he moves inside her.

"Bedroom, Molly," Sherlock pants, suddenly nimble fingers peeling her sleep shorts off her legs. His fingers on her thighs makes her vision wobble for a moment, but she recovers, taking his hand and pulling him, the both of them practically jogging down her short hallway.

Once inside Molly's room, she experiences something she has never experienced before, and it takes her completely by surprise, yet in it's wake, an almost painful level of arousal gives her world a desperate tint.

She comes untouched.

And it is all because Sherlock sucks her bottom lip into his mouth, biting it, then, with a growl that is so deep it's sub-vocal, he tears her pants off. Quite literally, tears them off. The fabric stays bunched in his hand as her cunt pulses viciously, and her knees are rendered useless. She gasps, mind scrambling to hold back her orgasm, but Sherlock does her in by bringing her torn pants to face and inhaling deeply, holding her gaze the entire time. Molly's eyes roll back into her head and she cries out, holding onto Sherlock's shoulders as her body shivers and convulses, hips rocking into nothing. She's left panting, bringing her head up from where it dropped onto his collarbone in the aftermath.

"You just - you just -" Sherlock says, eyes wide and glassy, mouth damp and parted.

"That was the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen," Molly says, surprising herself, and evidently him, as Sherlock's face goes slack, before an intensity that she's previously never seen is directed at her. He pushes her, and she stumbles back, knees catching her mattress and sending her falling back onto her bed.

Sherlock's teeth are bared in some show of dominance as he shucks his trousers off, and it's primitive and atavistic, but Molly whimpers, wanting Sherlock to do nothing more than own her. The sight of his cock outlined in his silk boxers makes her mouth water, and she squeezes her thighs together, the pressure doing nothing to relieve the building pressure, only doubling her need. When he removes his pants, he stalks toward her, wearing a lewd grin that makes her toes curl.

Sherlock settles over Molly, grabbing her wrists and wrapping them in one large hand above her head, leaving her skin burning. He doesn't lay atop her, just hovering, and when she arches he lifts up, taunting her.

"Sherlock, please," Molly begs, feeling close to tears as her body writhes. "Please, please. Touch me. Touch me."

At her pleas Sherlock acquiesces, lowering himself. Molly whines and wiggles under him, rubbing her body against his desperately.

"I want to do more than touch you, Molly. I want to feed you little morsels, stroke your hair until you get drowsy and curl in my lap. I want to fold you up, take you everywhere I go. Hide you where no one can find you; hurt you; take you. You're mine, Molly. My name is written in your flesh, but will you scream it? I'm certain I can make you. Dear, sweet, precious, Molly. So little, you're so small against me, like a tiny rabbit, and I'm the wolf. You're intoxicating, Molly, you have me making similes and metaphors," Sherlock tells her, watching with a grin as Molly squirms, his free hand - the one holding her name - stroking up and down her side, just brushing the underside of her breast before sliding down her belly to her hip, fingertips caressing the tops of her thighs.

"Sherlock," Molly gasps, finding his gleaming eyes. "Stop - stop teasing. I'm begging you, please."

Molly has never been this aroused in her entire life. Her entire body is one taut mess, pulled tight and strained, an empty ache making her want to curl and arch.

Sherlock kisses her and she pushes against him, a tear falling in relief when his hand goes to her knee to hook it over his hip. She holds her breath, and when he slides into her, she sobs, breaking away from him to heave in breaths, because this is so much more than sex, this hits soul-deep, and her heart is heavy and loud in her ears as her vision whites and her mind blanks.

Sherlock must feel it too, for he releases her hands and gathers her close, tucking his head into the crook of her neck. He grasps her hand in his, their Named palms held tight against another, and something races up her arm, straight into her chest, making her glow warm, and despite herself, tears fall hotly down her cheeks. This moment is beyond intimate, and Sherlock; lovely, brilliant, gorgeous, sweet Sherlock is with her, touching her, kissing her cheek and temple in soft affection. She wants the moment to last forever. She can feel his heartbeat against her chest, the soft huff of his breath curling into her neck and hair, and she tilts her hips up.

Sherlock lifts his head and kisses her gently, starting a slow grind that makes her give a long moan. Molly gives in to her previous desire to pet him, and her hands make long sweeps up and down his back. He groans at the contact, eyelids drooping and mouth parting as he meets her gaze. His reaction, his noise of pleasure, god, they're both so erotic she drops her hand to his hips, pulling him against her forcefully. Sherlock's teeth clack as his mouth closes and his grind stutters, but he hikes her legs higher and pulls back to thrust into her. Molly's head drops back on a keen, and Sherlock is there at once, his mouth sucking and leaving marks of his possession all over her throat and collarbones.

When his hand grips her breast and he rubs his thumb over her nipple, Molly cries out, back arching. She's suddenly very, very close, and something in her expression must show because Sherlock kisses her, his tongue twisting into her mouth wetly, and his pace speeds up, the push and pull of his hips making her head spin and her muscles tremble. Against her wishes, her cries begin to come more frequently, at a higher pitch and volume as she feels her orgasm begin to crest, the coil in her abdomen tightening, leaving her teetering on the edge.

Sherlock's eyes find hers and the intensity lying within them is only partially conceled behind a glaze of lust. He begins to lose rhythm, aching body jerking into her needily. Molly draws him down until his chest brushes hers and she can lay a palm on the undulating muscles of his stomach. They flex and release against her hand, the feeling indescribably delicious, and as he lowers his head to capture her mouth in his, she gasps, breath stumbling, before her back arches and she tosses her head back, lights bursting behind her suddenly closed eyelids as she wails, the pleasure overwhelming. Every synapse is firing, every nerve is singing, and she feels an astounding sense of rightness; of wholeness; of completion, and it's so much more than an orgasm. It's coming home after a long trip, eating the biscuits your mum made you, wrapping up in a warm blanket, taking a bath. It's every comfort and happiness she's ever felt, condensed into one feeling and multiplied by ten.

When she regains fully functioning thought, she opens her eyes to see Sherlock's face contorted in pained anticipation. A whine leaves his throat when she touches him again, stroking a hand up his taut belly, to his chest, to his neck, where she pulls him down, just enough to bring his forehead to hers.

"I am yours," she whispers, and Sherlock _breaks_. His eyes roll back into his head before they squeeze shut and he moans through gritted teeth, rocking against her desperately, spilling into her hotly.

"Molly, Molly, Molly," he pants, leaning down to place sloppy kisses on her red and purple flesh.

He breathes harshly against her flesh while he recovers, and Molly kisses his forehead, massaging his shoulders lightly with her right hand and rubbing a thumb over his bicep with her left. Sherlock reaches out and grasps her left hand, turning it to see her Named palm clearly.

"It's illogical how deliriously happy seeing my name written in your flesh makes me," Sherlock murmurs, pulling her hand to his face to lay a soft kiss over the lettering.

Molly grins in delight and bites her lip, moving Sherlock closer to her, relishing in the solidity of his weight and warmth against her.

"I...I need to apologize," he whispers. "For that day at in the tube station."

Molly feels her stomach turn. When she doesn't reply, Sherlock goes up on an elbow, looking down at her, and her face holds an unpleasant grimace as she looks up at the ceiling. He inhales slowly, readying himself for the discomfort he always feels when revealing and explaining emotions of any sort.

"In my youth, I was constantly rejected, outed. My only friend was John. I am censorious, and supercilious, and pernickity, and insensate. I barely understood - and I still don't - why John is my friend. The notion that someone could - could want me simply because my name was on their hand was outlandish and preposterous. I thought you would be ordinary, and I hated the thought. Ordinary people are a hindrance. They speak too slowly, walk too slowly, think too slowly," Sherlock explains, drawing Norse runes in the pale flesh of her stomach. He turns her chin with a finger so her gaze meets his. "You, Molly, are everything but ordinary. Extraordinary doesn't even begin to cover your benevolence, grace, humanity, or unfaltering optimism. Even in the face of the death you encounter every day, your smile and heart alone would heal thousands."

Molly feels her eyes go wide. No one, _no one_ , has ever, ever said anything like that to her, and with Molly's amazed expression aimed at him, Sherlock grows decidedly uncomfortable, coughing slightly and shifting away from her, cheeks heating and flush spreading. He ducks his head and lays his ear against Molly's chest. The steady beat of her heart gives him the courage to continue.

"I am not worthy of you, Molly. You are far too good for the likes of me. If you would permit me to stay, I would like to be a permanent fixture in your life. As it comes to many things, I am not tactful. I will hurt you, but if you tell me how, I'll do my best to avoid a repeat incident in the future. That is, if I have any place in your future." Sherlock says quietly.

Molly takes a deep breath, using a hand tangled in Sherlock's hair to pull him to her. She lays a lasting kiss on his mouth, swiping her tongue across his bottom lip and sucking it gently. She pulls away from him when he sighs in bliss. She rolls him onto his back, setting over him on her side. Although her lack of response or answer has him anxious and tense, Molly takes her time.

She runs her fingertips over his eyebrows, following the curves of his temple to thumb the curve of his zygomatic bones, next tracing his lush mouth, kissing him softly when his lips part under her touch. His proud nose proceeds that, and after, she lays her hand against his cheek, turning her wrist to chase the line of his jaw, which leads her to the soft places behind his ears, and he hums lowly when she rubs them, pushing her fingers into his hair and massaging his scalp.

"You're beautiful, Sherlock. Absolutely gorgeous, and remarkably sweet. Please, stay," Molly whispers.

Sherlock's eyes open slowly, and his expression remains unreadable while he searches his face. When he finds whatever he is looking for, his countenance becomes suddenly shy, a soft smile playing about his lips before he gathers her close to him, intertwining their Named hands together again. The same shock of whatever pulses up her arm into her chest, and they both melt against each other, and there they remain, until the sun rises and pushes them into daytime.

Although, in the light of day, Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper remain as inextricable as their fingers, two palms blessed by the stars themselves pressed tightly together.


End file.
